


Uncertainty Is The Normal State

by diyozaz



Category: The Society (TV 2019)
Genre: An Anxious Youth, Angst, Cassandra is a perfectionist, F/M, Harry is secretly a bookworm, Hassandra are actually Rhett and Scarlett, My babies like doing literary refs that unconsciously foreshadow the plot of the show, Pre-Canon, Swearing, Theatre Rehearsal, Unresolved Sexual Tension, hassandra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-07 23:38:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19095340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diyozaz/pseuds/diyozaz
Summary: In the middle of her rehearsal of "Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead", Cassandra gets unexpectedly interrupted by Harry, a late friday evening.[ pre-canon ]





	Uncertainty Is The Normal State

 

 **IT WAS 6PM, and West Ham High school's hallways were practically empty.** After all, it was a friday evening, why would students even bother to stay this late when they can just go outside, have fun, drinking all the heavy painful stress of this week away. Truth to be told, they were intellectually damaged. Teachers weren't soft on them these past days. Routine imposed them a crushing wave of difficult homeworks and tests, mostly ordered by Principal Karen Bingham. 2019 was supposed to be a year of progress for the establishment. Elevating the highschool's notoriety among the state was her main priority, no matter how hard the means would be to achieve this ambitious goal.

    If some teens couldn't cope with the pressure, drowning in the abyss of failure, others were able to reach the shore of success. Some would even ask for more by investing themselves a lot in their extracurricular activities so they can enrich their CV for college as well as possible. Cassandra Pressman belonged to this category of students. All people in town knew this. She always did and always will. So there she was, a friday night, standing alone on stage, _Rosencrante and Guildernstern are dead_ 's play in her hands with few of her lines, clumsily colored in a weak bright yellow color. She wished she shouldn't have borrowed Allie's only highlighter though. The young Pressman practically spent the entirety of the rehearsal uncounsciously scratching her black notebook with it while giving indiscreet heart eyes to Will. Now the felt tip barely worked, but Cassandra just had to make do with what she got, at the cost of an ugly looking play. It'll be okay anyway, she'll soon fix this at home. Dozens of shades of yellow highlighters await her on her desk. The thing is, Cassandra was stressed. She still struggled delivering some of her lines the perfect way.

     Perfection. That was _it_. The Holy Grail, oh so difficult to reach.

    She seemed to have forgotten what Old Miss Ohara said earlier. The cute portly fifty-something drama teacher never ceased to praise her acting skills. She never ceased to remind her how of an excellent job she did today. Nevertheless, in Cassandra's opinion, it wasn't enough. There were flaws the young woman deeply wanted to erase like her _bad_ British accent because there were some parts where her tongue mispronounced random words or such as the complexity to behave like a man since Guildernstern was originally a man. Ohara insisted on changing the character's gender, and what a better way to do this by casting a female for this semester's drama. “ _Reinterpretation is key”_ she would say “ _People in West Ham need to see another renewal of this wonderful tragicomedy with refreshing young faces playing these forgotten funny_ _ _Shakespearean__ _characters_ ”.

    The crew left their _Elizabethan_ outfits for their modern and comfortable ones less than an hour ago, excited and ready to savour the sweet taste of the week-end. Except the 18 year old Pressman. After kissing her goodbye, her young sister Allie set up the spotlight so that it would shine on her sister during her speech. From now on, silence reigned. The mere sound of her green velvet boots on the wooden floor sufficed to affirm her presence in the massive empty room. Cassandra in the center, the four trunks, the autumns leafs and a blue painted background, behind her.

    The bright light coming from the ceilling heavenly illuminated her. In a few seconds she'll fully embody Guildenstern. Once again. The blond took a deep breath, closed her eyes in order to have a complete focus on her lines. Then, she opened them, glanced one last time at her paper before reciting her part. Cassandra started with **“** _Are you happy ?_ **”** somewhere in the beginning of the first act. This question was asked to Rosencrantz, played by the infamous Harry Bingham who had to answer “ _I supposed so_ ”. In the context of her private rehearsal, she imagined him standing next to her, just like the stage directions mentionned on the book, except this time, the boy wasn't constantly shaking his leg. Ohara harranged him for this by the way. It's been a while since he pissed her off, but today he was something else. The young man didn't pour that much of his seriousness during the reheasal which irritated Cassandra. Especially two weeks away from the final presentation. The word _Heads_ sounded so lifeless to the ear. They repeated the opening scene so many times it left the top of her left hand bruised. In the meantime, a small reddish circle had formed itself, a bloody good reminder of the iconic coin toss scene.

    Suddenly, the front door slammed. Someone entered the auditorium. From the pace of his steps, Cassandra assumed that person was kinda in a rush, mostly looking for something. It's funny how, even in the dark, she recognized him. There were times when she desperatly asked God— not that she was a true believer or anything— why the hell she was particularly sensitive to each trites details of his apparence. His ruffled brown hair, his tall figure, his strong back and the way it curved when he's nervous, his usual button down dark shirts that would reveal just enough of his torso... Yes, Harry Bingham was definitely an easily recognazable face among the sea of youth that inhabited West Ham.

    When he noticed her presence, Bingham stopped near the white metal bars running the length of the last rows of black seats, studying her from the shadow. She couldn't see him. Her salmon hat was off this time, letting her long blond curls fall upon her shoulders. He got to face the facts. Even if her beige attire didn't perfectly hug her gorgeous feminine assests, like the pants and the jacket weren't too tight to put her nice breasts and butts on display, her angelic face was shining and it all that mattered for him this moment. He came to the conclusion that Cassandra was a fine female specimen. When Harry's brain analyzed the explicit nature of the thought that just crossed his mind, he immediately lowered his gaze. This once over needed to stop at some point, and so did his inappropriate and unexpected blushing.

   “Oh look who's here, body student president's here to rehearse— wait, you know what ? Ignore me, I'm just back for my jacket” he sarcastically said, emerging from the shadow as he made his way toward the scene.

   “Of course you are... Are you talking about the _Louis Vuitton_ or the _Burberry_ one ? I mean they're kinda the same, your style's _tastless_ , you never listen to the criticisms do you ?” Cassandra playfully replied in a cool French accent. She lowered her papers to have a better look of her dear partner. His nonchalance was visually unbearable.

   “Fuck you Cassandra, I'm not in the mood” he snapped at her as he joined her on stage, heading toward the dressing rooms. The young man didn't even glanced at her. These types of interactions between them became a habit. Only few words spoken would trigger their commune hatred they both feel toward each other. Just another typical day at West Ham High.  

    “As if you always were...” Pressman annoyingly whispered under her breath. She rolled her eyes as she saw his figure dissappearing behind the curtains.

    Two minutes later, Harry finally came back two minutes later with the Burberry big jacket in his hand. So she was right. Called it ! Before getting the chance to leave the stage, Cassandra called out to him :

    “Since you're here, why don't you take your play and rehearse with me, I can hear this little brain of yours begging to get its lines learnt the right way”

    He stopped midway across the stairs. The muscles of his back tensed through the fabric of his shirt—probably made out of Oxford cloth— and tilted his head to the side. It sounded like a mere reproach that he could have simply ignored. He could have also left the auditorium. Still, this comment appeared to be the final straw that broke the camel's back. Harry turned himself and walked toward her to meet her figure in the white circle light in the center of the wooden stage. It's better now, he thought. Their faces were equally exposed. The powerful light seemed to pierce and remove every layer of falsehood or acted emotions. Cassandra's fringe didn't serve of a protection anymore. Truth. That was it. The Holy Grail. They held their stares still as if they were already drowning in the purity of their nakedness, competing to be the best. Yet, Harry's bottom lip started to quiver when his ears were able to listen to her irregular breathing.

    “Why did you join the troupe Cassandra ?” he monotonely asked her, without bothering beating around the bush.

    “To be the heroine of an absurdist journey that's why” Cassandra solely replied. She wasn't wrong, at all, but Harry didn't buy this response. In all honesty, it wasn't actually the one that fully satisfied him.

    “Why does your answer sound more like _i'm here to fuck your life up_ ”

    “Subjectivity can be bitch sometimes, that's your interpretation of my line...”

    “Why don't you stop acting like a one for a minute”

    “I can't, Harry and you know that. We're all actors. Of our own life. As far as I'm concerned, I'm your partner. We're the leads and we ought to give the the audience what they want. I sign up for this play because I am an esthete”

    “Stop with this bullshit alright ? Nobody gives a crap about this fucking play, it's to get a fucking pass for college"

    “Our group does, the school does and so do our parents” she exclaimed in disbelief before adding “ I care, it has to be perfect“

     Here we go again. Perfection, her goddamn obssessive stupid Holy Grail.

    “You seriously think Principal Bingham cares ?” Harry vehemently asked.

     Taken aback by the calmness and the intimacy of this delivery, Cassandra moved her lips several times, trying to let out a random, yet emotional question “What ?”

    “Try to live 24/7 with a mother whose only concerns are this damn smell and student percentage of success” Harry brutally declared, holding back sorrow. He ignored where this came from, what did he feel the burning desire to confess this to her. Cassandra was his rival not a former friend— anymore. She stepped closer to him so she could raise her right free hand to comfort him but before she could come in contact with his forearm, he moved backwards, too scared of the warmness of her fingertips likely to leave invisible painful burns on his skin. Harry avoided it despite having to hear that inner voice who was forcing him to lean in this physical contact. At his movement, the blond haired girl awkwardly lowered her hand. Of course, why would she even dare to reduce their personal space in the first place ? It was a such stupid thing to try.

   “Look, I'm sorry, I had no idea you were her emotional punching bag I—” she carefully uttered. His vulnerabily did something incredibly weird to her heart rate. Cassandra found again the forbidden taste of his helplesness she once had known in the past. He was verklempt and she knew deep down that his hundred dollars worthy clothes couldn't cover this.

   “Obviously you hadn't, you're too busy writing your own play anyway...” he started, picking on her. “What are you writing now, the _Exciting Yale Project_ act ”. Obviously, at some point, Harry needed to ruin the atmosphere. She saw it coming from miles away. The tension rose between them.

   “How clever Harry” Oblivious to his jealousy, Cassandra played the card of miscommunication. Short answers were the smartest ones, no wonder why her favourite drama technique was stichomythia. Seeing her not receptive to his words, Bingham quickly thought about various attempts to remove that sneering smile of hers, to destabilize her. She wanted to carry on the literary metaphore, okay. He can last longer with this.

   “What if there's any plot holes in the story ?”

   “Maybe so... But that's why I'm not writing your own, you guess the plot”

  “But imagine if you c _—_ ?” Harry stopped himself from talking. He almost slipped something he might regret forever. This girl was really rocking the shit out of him. He couldn't bear anymore to be be her victim in irritating game. “ You know what, fuck it, I'm not wasting my time talking shit about this. You've always been acting like a bitch eversince the party—“

   Cassandra came closer. Her expression, stern.

   “Don't you say a word about the party, nothing happened” she lied. She nearly ripped her paper out of anger.

    Both of them endeavored to deny the truth. Cassandra and Harry didn't missed that. Their eyes betrayed the mask of self confidence they inexperly worn. Even if they could, the scars of this saturday night won't dissapear because the memories still there, present in a form of multiple high quality pictures Becca took with her fine Nikon camera then sent in the WhatsApp group. Harry won in the story. He saw and understood her weakness which happens to be that night. Triumphant, he offered her a wide devious smile and abandoned her in the circle of light. He was going downstairs when her noticed Pressman's open navy striped bag on the chair, by the curtains. His eyes travelled from a bottle of pills to a book.

    “ _Gone with the wind_ uh ?” Harry took time to study the old damaged yet familiar book cover. He oddly suspected Cassandra to be a vintage lover. The old yellowish pages reminded him of his dead father's classic novels collection at home. Cassandra's edition was no different from his, apart from the fact that his cover was grey and hers blue.

    “I always suspected you were the romantic type... by the way, plot twist, they actually never end together and eventually die” he proudly revealed, hoping he spoiled her the ending.

    “How infortunate... I read it twice already” Cassandra answered, her eyes focused on her lines.

    Harry nervously chuckled and turned away, briskly heading to the exit door. Right before he could open it, he heard her voice soflty echoeing.

    “Too bad though, Rhett and Scarlett had so much potential” the blue eyed blond innocently declared, still looking at her crumpled papers. There was this tone in her voice, the one that implied that she discovered something about the other. _Shit!_ He swore to himself. His Adam apple bobbed up. _Touché_. She uncovered another layer of his personality. No doubt, she'll use this to her advantage in the future. But Harry couldn't care less. He loved literature so what ?

    “Right Cassandra, whatever you say” he muttered as he refused to stay any longer in her tormenting company. Harry didn't want to see the wicked grin on her lucious lips. He didn't want to feel her blue eyes boring into his back, tearing his shirt apart, plunging into his skin to finally crush his wild beating heart with her claws. On his way back to his BMW, Harry did all in his power to forget their discussion. Yes, Rhett and Scarlett were probably attracted to each other, but the more they tried to embrace their love, the more their downfall was to be expected. Truth is, Margaret Mitchell's fictional couple were too obsessed with their great expectations. Hence the reason they never consume their love. Hence the reason, separation was the ultimate end. At least, that's the way Bingham read this.

 

    This friday night, wasted and breathless next to Kelly in his bed, Harry came to a final conclusion after his strange cathartic exchange with the Pressman woman.

 

    Life isn't an acting, it's a goddamn tragic performance.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> * inserting an audience clapping gif because that's me right now in front of them*
> 
> NB : The title is an isolated quote from "the player", the mysterious voice of wisedom (if you can call it) in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead. I chose it because it reflects so well our characters' mood along the series. Not only they aren’t sure about their future but also about their feelings for each other. I'm still bitter we didn't get more of their backstory... That being said, I've only got one thing to say : #BringCassandraBackForS2
> 
> I'm not that proud of my writing style since English is my second language so bear with me if you notice a lot of grammatical mistakes and weird syntax. I'll try to improve it in my future projects, that is to say, more Hassandra fics. I attempted to write this fic with simple and short sentences much as Beckett and Stoppard. I hope this turned out to be good ! Anyway make sure to tell me what you think of this one shot in the comment section and leave a kudos if you enjoyed ! I have more ideas in store. 
> 
> Come chat with me and follow on twitter, i'm @burntlatte :)


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